


Safe Harbour

by the_sock_index



Series: Sock's Rant Meme Fills [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pain, Serious Injuries, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:39:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sock_index/pseuds/the_sock_index
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "John whump? (John's being tortured for two-days straight when Sherlock finds him)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Harbour

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for prompts on the [sherlock_rant](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com) meme [here](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/8145.html?thread=66506193).

“John!”

An amorphous blur swims into his line of sight and he cringes away from the pain in his eyes and his head. He doesn’t know, can’t remember, how long he was in the dark. He remembers other things:

_Darkness presses over his eyes—_

_Harsh, laboured breathing shrieking into oppressive silence—_

_The crack of his toes as they break, pulled and twisted, deformed—_

_Screams—earsplitting, piercing—_

_Muscles tearing, the burn unbearable--_

_Metal slicing through his unprotected skin--_

_And salt--_

_And agony--_

_Alcohol rubbed cruelly into deep cuts—_

_The screams, the screams that never end, that echo--_

“John! Christ.”

_Make it stop--_

"Oh Christ. John! Fuck..."

His heart pounds against his rib cage, his throat rubbed raw and his ears feel like they’re bleeding from the sudden noise, but he can’t move, can’t turn away, because everything hurts so fucking _much_.

“It’s okay, I promise. It’s over, there’s an ambulance on its way. Just stay with me.”

He recognises the voice, but can’t place it in his panic, in his pain. The words hardly register, and he can’t make sense of it, can’t even see properly.

There’s a brush of something-- _skin_ of some kind—against his head, but even though he tries to get away, he can’t move. His muscles scream—there’s some sort of noise, like a wounded animal or a tortured violin—but refuse to cooperate.

The pain rises up to pull him under and for a moment or an eternity, it is all he knows. He drowns in a sea of it, the fine grains of sand sneaking into every crevice, every secret place until he no longer knows which way is up and if he’s floating—suspended—or sinking towards darker depths.

“John Watson,” he hears from somewhere far off, his head bobbing above the surface to catch the voice that calls him, the only thing that could pull him to safety.

This voice he knows with absolute certainty, has always known and will always know.

_Sherlock_.

“He’s not responding,” the other voice—the vaguely familiar one—says.

The pain threatens to drown him once again, filling his lungs and constricting his chest, his heart.

A large hand, cool and firm, wraps around his wrist, and it’s like returning to port, securing the anchor after being nearly destroyed by storm.

“He can hear us,” Sherlock says confidently. “He’ll be fine.”

He can’t see, and everything hurts, but he slides into the darkness with the knowledge that he will be able to find his way back.


End file.
